


The View from Here

by Fluencca



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen Fic, Prompt Fic, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter goes undercover in prison, though he doesn't get what he's getting himself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for an anonymous prompt on The Collar Corner: 
> 
> Prompt/Request: I've read a lot of stories in which Neal has to go undercover in prison. Well I would like that once Peter would have to go (they would send Neal, but for some reason they can't).
> 
> I Don't Want: Peter to be hurt in prison

Peter looked up when Neal came into the conference room. Everyone was already assembled, and he was able to drop the bomb he'd been waiting with since he and Diana had first come up with the idea.

"Neal, you're going back to prison," he announced happily, and handed Neal the copy of the case-file he'd been holding.

The whole room broke into sniggers and grins at the well-rehearsed trope. Despite his smile, Peter was being perfectly serious, and he couldn't wait to see how Neal would react.

Neal's smile was somehow sarcastic and confused at the same time, and Peter was again reminded of how much control his CI had over the smallest reactions; he could even pallor on demand, if he thought it would help sell his story.

"I assume you're not referring to the non-pasteurized dairy Diana claims I have, so what…?" Neal said as he took a seat. He opened the folder, but his questioning gaze remained on Peter.

"Nope, not the dairy, which no one here knows anything about." When Neal still smiled that confused half-smile, he grinned broadly in return.

"The counterfeit lottery tickets," Peter said as though that explained it all, and he couldn't bite down on the wonderful feeling that finally, they had a break. "Until now we knew it was Yivgeni Marakov who was forging them, but not how he was getting them onto the streets. Until last night. Diana?" Peter gestured to Diana, who was sitting at the far end of the conference table.

She leaned forward in her seat as she spoke. "Last night we intercepted an email from Marakov to one of his known associates Outside. In it he says, 'be in touch with—'"

"'—with the bull tomorrow night,'" Neal finished, nodding as he looked through the folder. "As in, a prison guard." He looked up at Diana. "And now you think there's a guard who's acting as fence for his forgeries, and you want to send me in as…" He trailed off for a moment, and turned to examine Peter's face. Peter couldn't help but smile, daring Neal to read his thoughts. "… As another first-class counterfeiter with wares to sell? See if I can't ferret out who the guard is, so the whole ring can be taken down at once?" Neal tilted his head in consideration, and Peter could tell the idea was growing on him.

"Exactly!" Peter said, and leaned over to punch Neal lightly on the shoulder. He, Diana and Jones had spent the better part of twenty minutes explaining to the rest of the team the slang of the email, the ramifications, and how sending in Neal undercover would help uncover the dirty prison guard. Neal just _got_ it, like Peter knew he would.

"It shouldn't take you more than a couple of days, and the best part is, you don't even need a new alias."

"That is convenient, actually," Neal said, and Peter could tell he didn't want to hear the end of the sentence. He gestured at the assembled agents with a swipe of his hand to disregard whatever came next. "Forgetting to respond to a fake name during roll-call is more trouble than it's worth. Especially in the military and prison," Neal added distractedly, as he continued leafing through the file. "So, what am I going to jail for?"

Diana answered. "We figured, it'll take us a few weeks to vet the inmates on C-block, where Marakov is, and make sure none of them have had any dealings with you since you became a CI. If you forge something, we can arrest you for it, maybe publicly?" She asked Peter.

Peter nodded at her, and wrote that down. It was a good idea, and might make Neal's transition into prison smoother. He looked up at Neal. "Do you think you can forge something in the next two or three weeks?"

Neal smiled brightly, and Peter knew better than to ask why. He didn't want to have to arrest him for real. "What would you like me to forge?"

The meeting broke up shortly after, each agent assigned a task. Neal went home to begin his forgeries, and it was only much later in the day that Peter wondered why Neal would need to fake pallor at the mention of prison, but he dismissed the thought and returned to the SA9 form.

~*~

Neal finished the forgeries two weeks before the vetting was done, and Peter found himself wondering just how in-practice his skills were. He had forged an exquisite Isidor Kaufmann, but then decided it was too niche to impress the class of people he was trying to get in with. Peter was more impressed with the forgery than he was with the piece, and made sure to mark a small spot on the back on the canvas when Neal wasn't looking. Three days later Neal came back with a pile of forged prescription pads, NYU diplomas and signed baseballs. He called for Peter to follow him into the conference room and dropped his armload of illegalities on the table.

Peter sorted through them.

"Good morning," Neal proudly said as he straightened up. "These are our options. The prescription pads are probably best, but we risk them getting out on the street. The diplomas can sell for a lot, and they're easiest to track down once the case is over, but it depends on what the target audience of our mystery guard is. They might not be the fake-education type. And these," he grabbed a ball that was on its way to rolling off the table, "are my favorite." He tossed it at Peter.

Peter caught the ball with his left hand, but it was a moment before he could say anything. Including the Kaufmann piece from earlier in the week, Neal had forged… Peter rotated the ball in his hand. _Sandy Koufax, 1965_. Millions. The miscellanea on this table were worth millions.

"Neal, we just need something to arrest you on, not a catalogue of your forging capabilities."

Neal shrugged, as though at a loss for words. Peter knew better. He waited.

"I— I just thought it would be best to have options. And besides, if you arrest me on one thing, I need something _else_ to offer up for sale, right? In my experience, the FBI doesn't let you keep copies of the things you forged."

Peter nodded his agreement. "Of course. And also you couldn’t decide."

"Mostly I couldn't decide," Neal agreed readily, nodding and eyeing his handiwork, and Peter found he couldn't really be upset at the superfluous forgeries. Neal _had_ brought them to him. Instead he changed to subject to something more neutral, safe ground. "You are way too enthusiastic for someone going into prison. Was it really so pleasant an experience?"

"Peter, prison is about being prepared. This is preparation."

Peter looked up sharply at Neal. He sounded serious, more seriously sincere than he had over anything since Keller and Elizabeth. Only now he had no idea what Neal's sincerity meant.

"Do you have any more "preparations" to make?" He asked cautiously, keeping his tone somewhere between a joke and a query.

" _Other_ preparations. I'll be at my desk?" Neal smiled, and it was so carefree Peter wondered if he'd only imagined the somber tones before. Neal worked at his desk quietly and diligently while the rest of the team focused on the vetting.

~*~

When the vetting was through, Neal had been given a week before being reprocessed into the system. They worked out the details of his arrest, including the casual cameras that would be there ready to upload the spectacular debacle to YouTube and whatever news outlets showed interest in the forger auctioning a fake Kaufmann at Sotheby's, exactly as an FBI raid enters to arrest him for fake prescription pads. Neal said it was overkill, but Peter argued that it would have to be if he wanted the news coverage. Peter won.

Three days before the arrest the known associate and his wife turned up dead. Peter notched the case up to top priority.

Two days before the arrest Jones called an emergency meeting. Peter, Neal, and Diana followed him into the conference room and took their seats. Jones picked up the remote control.

"Bad news, guys. Guess who just got transferred to C-block of the very institute Caffrey is supposed to be visiting in two days?" He clicked at the screen and a mug-shot of a man Peter never saw before came up. Neal and Diana both groaned.

Diana turned to Jones. "Jiminy Cricket? Please tell me you're kidding!"

Peter looked at the man on the screen. Between the chubby cheeks, the beady eyes, and the ascot, Peter could see it. Jiminy Cricket. But he still had no idea who this man was. He interrupted Jones to ask.

"You were out for a few days about a year ago, and we caught this minor case. Caffrey was the face of the operation, and when we took Jiminy down he kept shouting how Karma would get Caffrey sooner or later, cause you can't use an alias against Karma. He went on and on. The dude was a joke, and we solved the case in a couple of days. Hughes signed off on it, so I guess it never crossed your desk.

"Unfortunately we can definitely count on him to out Caffrey as an FBI narc."

Peter exhaled sharply, his mind processing and momentarily unconcerned with the conversation of the others. This was bad, no one's fault, but bad. They had two dead people and this operation had been weeks in the planning. He couldn't let it dissipate, but he also couldn't let Neal go in and risk getting recognized. It would blow any chance they had at getting this guy, and more importantly, probably kill Neal.

He tuned back in to hear Diana say, "Neal, you can't go in. Not only would we lose any chance of catching the fence, you'd probably get killed. Jiminy Cricket _will_ recognize you. It's not worth the risk."

Peter smiled to himself. He loved knowing he could count on his team to be on the same page as him. Also, he had an idea. "I'll go in."


	2. Chapter 2

"Jones voiced both pros and cons, Diana was just wary of changing the plan so close to deadline, and Neal… I'm telling you El, Neal was dead-set against it. I don't really get it." Peter put the plates on the table and headed back toward the kitchen for the cutlery. He held the door for Elizabeth as she passed through holding the casserole.

"Maybe he's just worried, hon. He's not used to seeing you go undercover very often. Can that be it?" She held the door for him on her way to get the salad.

Peter shook his head, like trying to capture a fleeting thought. "I don't think that's it. He wanted to change the whole plan, like he didn't trust me to be able to pull it off. When I said no, he went over my head to Hughes."

"Oh, my goodness, he did that?  That's serious. What did Reese say?" Elizabeth looked down at the table.

"I love you babe, but it's not called 'setting' if you just pile the dishes on the table." But she smiled like it was endearing and motioned for him stay where he was, and began setting out the plates, silverware and glasses he had brought out.

"I'm sorry, El. Now I'm distracted by why Neal doesn't want me to go into the… undercover job instead of him."

El looked up from the table. "What's the job? And what happened with Reese? Let's sit."

"Going in with some forgers to discover who the fence is. And Reese gave Neal a whole speech about chain of command and not to forget who the FBI agents were and who was only a consultant. It was pretty harsh." He served himself a piece of casserole, but didn't even look at it. "Then he turned to _me_ and basically took Neal's side! So while he agreed not to postpone the operation, he let Neal build a new alias, cancel the big-arrest we had planned, _and_ I have to sit all day tomorrow and take ridiculous criminal-lessons from Neal."

Peter could tell that Elizabeth was searching for something to say, but he knew there was nothing that could make him forget how hurt he'd felt when he realized Neal didn't believe he could do his job, and worse, actively pursued proving it. He began to eat, but before the first forkful got to his mouth his phone buzzed.

"As usual, a paltry apology." He handed El the phone, and she read the text out loud. " _Sorry I went over your head. Was important._ Yikes. He doesn't sound very sorry," she looked apologetically at Peter, as though there was something she could have done differently. But then his phone buzzed again, and she looked back down. " _And also I'm about to do it again._ What does that mean?"

Peter dipped his head into one hand, a defeated gesture, and motioned with the other toward the front door. A cheerful knock sounded.

"Come in, Neal," Peter said, but didn't look up. If this was going the way he thought, he was pretty sure he and Neal were going to be in a fight within half-an-hour or so. He was half-right.

El invited Neal to join them for dinner, and about twenty minutes later Neal, dripping sweet geniality, asked Elizabeth if Peter had told her about their most recent case.

"He did. And as long as you brought it up, I have to say, it was a little ungracious to go over Peter's head just because you think he can't handle a few forgers as well as you could. It's… petty, and unbecoming of you, Neal." El gently placed her cutlery on her plate, and looked at Neal, as though challenging him to say she was wrong. Neal, however, was looking directly at Peter. Peter narrowed his eyes in warning, but for a change, Neal didn't back down.

"Did Peter also mention that these few forgers were in Maximum Security, and that handling them meant going undercover, _for days_ , in prison? Or that most the guards can't be told what's going on, since one of them is the fence we're looking for?" Now he turned to look at Elizabeth. "Or that he flat-out refused to listen to me when I told him that he'd get the… _intimate attention_ of every gang in there if he went in on a forger's alias?"

As Neal continued listing things Peter failed to mention, Peter watched Elizabeth. Her expression had gone from fiercely protective to disbelieving, but only briefly. Now her lips were pressed into a thin line, visibly controlling her breathing, and as her eyes travelled from Neal to him, Peter could feel the anger roiling off her.

"Neal," she said abruptly, interrupting him, "have some more salad. The arugula's imported. You, in the kitchen." She didn't wait for him to acknowledge, she simply turned and left.

Peter rose to follow her, but shot Neal look so filled with malice he thought he must be bearing his teeth.

Neal only said, "Arugula? Yum," and smiled unconcernedly as he reached for the salad bowl.

The lecture was short. Elizabeth hissed at him that she couldn't believe he'd try to hide that from her, he was lucky that Neal had his back, and that he had _better_ not be angry with Neal for telling her, or for going to Hughes, for that matter. She informed him that he was going to start taking his "criminal lessons" from Neal tonight, and so help her if she even got the notion that he wasn't paying attention. She sent him back out to apologize to Neal.

He was rubbing his sternum distractedly as he took his seat, wondering how to start, but Neal saved him the trouble.

"She pokes when she's mad?" He sounded sympathetic.

Peter made sure his tone was neutral. "Yup. You sound familiar with the concept. Kate?"

"My mom, actually."

Peter looked at Neal, his anger suddenly gone. He was looking not at anything, exactly, smiling a threadbare smile as though fondly remembering a not-so-fond memory. For Neal to admit something of his personal life was so rare, so _trusting_. Nothing else he could have said would have made Peter realize that this wasn't a game or a power-play, it was _worry_.

He didn't quite know how to respond to that.

The silence stretched, Neal toying with his fork and looking up every few seconds, and Peter watching him, until Elizabeth reappeared carrying two bottles of beer and a mug of tea. She set one of the bottles by Peter, and walked around the table to set the other by Neal.

"I'm sorry I called you ungracious. You're a good friend." She gave him a quick hug from behind and kissed the top of his head, shot Peter one last warning look which he was grateful Neal couldn't see, and went upstairs.

"Teach me about prison, sensei." Peter said, and then he listened.

 


	3. Chapter 3

His time in prison went mostly according to plan. They were the worst three days of his life. Neal had prepared him for the intake procedure, which had to be observed for the sake of the guards and prisoners being processed with him. He hadn't fully understood. Maybe if Neal had used the term "maniacal sadism" it would have sunk in deeper. The chilling delight of the guards, the calls of, "strip for me baby; slower, that's right" and, "spread those cheeks, oooh, this one looks practiced!" followed by raucous laughter were worse than the violent, probing fingers and the vulgar mockery of pillow-talk that accompanied them, worse than the nakedness.

He followed Neal's advice and spotted the biggest guy in the group of new inmates, and sat next to him at dinner. His meal was uneventful, but one of the other fishes—  as Neal insisted he refer to the new inmates— a guy taller than Peter and much broader, wasn't so lucky. Peter kept his eyes down, but couldn't avoid the sounds of the man sitting at the wrong table, the wet _fthlop_ of the mashed-potatoes hitting the ground, the jeering encouragement of his new friends to eat his meal off the filthy floor, and the man's whimpers as he was forced to say thank you for having me to dinner, and yes, he would like to get closer acquainted in the near future.

Twice during rec that evening he'd been asked what he'd done and what's his name, and what kind of name was that, anyway. As he gave off his answer with an air of cool contempt he'd practiced with Neal, much to his embarrassment, he prayed him a silent thanks for convincing him to go with Paul Dell, in for manslaughter and a minor forgery charge.

"Why can't I be Peter Feederson? It's a perfectly good, _existing_ alias, and you know I'm more comfortable with my name. Don’t want to mess up roll-call, remember?"

Neal began explaining with ease, as though he had already given it some thought. "A- you don't want a name some Aryan vermin might decide sounds Jewish. B- you want a name that can conceivably be German, Irish, or Italian, so none of those gangs have a reason to hate you right off. And C—" Neal stopped himself here, and looked unsure whether to continue.

Peter's tact ran out when he was overruled by both his boss and his wife. "C? I'm here to learn, Neal."

Neal gave him a calculating look, and Peter was certain he was preparing for a lie, but then he said, "C- I don't think you want to be Peter when you're in there. Better to be Paul and then leave him behind when the case is done."

Now he was glad of it. After four hours he knew that the name Paul would always carry a vague sense of filth to him. He couldn't imagine what he would do if he'd felt that way about _Peter_ , what his wife calls him, something that should be only _his_.

Lights out was a relief, mostly because he had a cell to himself. But that, too, was short-lived. The sounds from the surrounding cells began to filter in, strangled sobs and straining bed-springs and please don'ts, until they melted into a deafening cacophony of human sorrow and depravity. He tried thinking of El until he realized she was the last person he wanted to associate with this place, and instead thought of Neal, until he realized he had put Neal here twice, three times counting the time after the explosion, and suddenly the loneliness of the things he wouldn't think about and the guilt over the things he couldn't think about overcame him, and then he was thinking of nothing, staring into the darkness as the sounds of prison swallowed him.

~*~

The next morning he showered with desperately maintained ease, not lingering but not rushing, either. Apparently, that was a sure way to garner unwanted attention. One group of thugs walked by, eyeing the fishes and some of more veteran, weaker looking inmates, but Peter offered them eye-contact, a crazed half smile, and twitchy shoulder spasm, and they moved on. Neal hadn't offered to tell him how he learned that trick, and Peter hadn't asked.

He made his approach to Marakov that day, and offered him 50% of profits on his counterfeit prescription pads in return for the name of his fence and protection. Marakov agreed, except it would be 70% and a forged letter from the prison's Head Physician allowing him to sit out his next 5 shifts in the license tag plant. Peter agreed, he would have it by tomorrow. He was screwed.

He spent the rest of the day steeling himself to do what he knew he had to. Of course, Neal had a contingency in place also for this, sort of, and it involved conning his way into the infirmary. It was the least secure set of rooms in the prison, and it would be easiest get phone access from there once the doctors finished their morning rounds and retreated to their break-room. He wasn't sure if he'd be calling to ask for extraction or for advice, but either way it was his next stop.

Peter had learned a myriad of ways to get himself into the infirmary, from deliberate, localized bee stings to rubbing cold-sore medication on his tonsils, but considering his limited resources he'd have to go low-tech. Very low-tech. That evening he sat in his cell, plaque scraped off his teeth accumulated on a fingernail, trying with all his might to summon the courage to rub it into his eye. It was a tried and tested way to stimulate an eye infection, Neal had assured him. Just apply the night before and let it grow. It was _disgusting_.

He stood and went to face the small plastic mirror above the sink. "You can do this," he whispered. "It's just a trick. A ploy."

 _That will get you a real eye infection._ "That's not helpful!" He muttered, rolled his eyes, and tried again.

"This isn't to get out of school, it's to catch a murderer. It's to uphold the law."

_The law sends guys like Neal to places like this, where they are either eaten alive or forced to survive on their own, no backup, no allies. What kind of law is that?_

But oddly, it was the thought of Neal that did it. Neal who was impulsive and impetuous… "But more often than not, does what's right. Damn it, Neal. I blame you," Peter whispered, and rubbed the gunk on his nail into his eye.

By six am he was in the infirmary.

 


	4. Chapter 4

At seven the doctor came around. Peter had been resting, both eyes closed on account of the infected one, and he'd drifted back to sleep. Now he jerked awake at the feeling of someone watching him. The wrist and ankle cuffed to the bed jerked back.

"Hmmm. Looks like a nasty, though _expertly_ achieved eye infection we have here."

Peter's mouth dropped open, forming voiceless questions for a few moments as he shook his head in disbelief. Then the surprise was replaced by a sense of such utter relief, it rivaled the time he and El had been told that no, it wasn't breast-cancer, false alarm. And suddenly it didn't feel like betrayal of her goodness to think of her, and he savored that for a moment. Then he realized that Neal was smiling at him as though he knew exactly what he was thinking, and Peter thought he wouldn't be surprised if that were the case. He quickly turned his thoughts to his next urgent concern.

"Neal, what the hell are you _doing here?"_ He spat out in a low voice, and this time he made sure to bear his teeth. "You shouldn't be here! And how did you even get in?"

It was like Neal was deaf to inflection. He answered as though he was an unexpected guest at a surprise party. He grabbed as stool and leaned against the bed, and divulged his achievements with a proud smile. "I told you prison was about being prepared. Weeks ago I got in touch with Rafael here—" he gave a small wave toward the elderly inmate with the mop— "who is a Lifer with an unquenchable desire for handcrafted chocolates. He told me as soon as Dell checked in to the infirmary. I considered coming in, anyway, but when El heard she insisted."

He rubbed his breastbone with what looked like genuine pain. "She pokes _hard_." It was close to a whine.

Peter grunted in agreement. Then something clicked and he asked, "Why were you with my wife at six am?" Of course he didn't suspect untoward intentions from either of them; he was just desperate to hear more about El.

Neal didn't bother answering. "I got in with this," and he pulled from his pocket an electronic pass-card. "All State Correctional Facilities use the same encoding. Can you believe that no one ever asked for this back? And look, I even added a picture this time." He held the card up to his face for comparison.

Peter was feeling more like himself by the minute. "I cannot believe you kept that! Neal, that's illegal for you to have, it's illegal for me to look at, God, you've been walking around with a get-out-of-jail-free card _for years now_ and I'm gonna go to jail for real." He pressed the first two fingers of his free hand against the bridge of his nose, honestly not sure if he could handle Neal on top of Marakov and the dirty mystery guard, and he just needed to _think_.

Neal leaned forward again, arms against the railing of the bed, and whispered pensively, almost to himself. "Technically, I think it's a get- _into_ -jail-free card…"

Peter's right hand pulled against the cuffs as he made a grab for Neal. The sleepy guard at the end of the room looked up, and Neal waved him down with an "inmates, huh?" smile.  He busied himself with the clipboard, actually making notes, Peter noticed, and came around to stand by Peter again.

"Don't be mad, Diana knows I'm here and how I got in. So does Hughes. El insisted it all be above board. Which means I'm saying goodbye to this after today." Neal patted to pocket that held the pass-card with a sigh.

"Anyway, priorities," Neal said, and grabbed a small bottle of clear liquid. He broke off the cap. "Why are you in the infirmary? We assumed something went wrong, but since you haven't said the activation phrase to any of the guards, Hughes was reluctant to pull you out."

He tilted Peter's head back. Peter snapped it back down again.

"You are not a real doctor!" He couldn't believe he actually had to explain this.

"First of all, you offend me. My diploma from the NYU School of Medicine is hanging right there." Neal pointed to the wall above the desk, where indeed an embossed NYU diploma hung, right next to what looked like an original Kaufmann. Peter exhaled in resignation. He didn't even know how to counter Neal's logic at this point.

Neal continued. "And second, relax. I'm just flushing the eye with saline. Besides, I have to look busy." Peter gave up and tilted his head back. He took the opportunity to fill Neal in.

"I have to meet with Marakov at lunch today, which is in less than five hours, and he wants a letter from the Head Doc letting off work detail." He paused as Neal massaged the crusted secretion out of his eye with a gloved hand.

Before he could ask the one question that had been on his mind since the first moment he saw him, Neal said, "I'm pretty sure I can doctor something up for you," and smiled broadly at his cleverness. Peter groaned and pretended to nurse another headache, but God, he'd missed having a partner.

Neal spent the rest of the morning looking through patients' files, and scribbling notes in what increasingly became Doctor Harding's hieroglyphic penmanship. Maddeningly, he also treated several patients, including Peter. But chained to the bed and with an eye that looked like an overripe strawberry, there was only so much resistance he could put up. And the antibiotic cream soothed his eye almost immediately.

Neal completed the letter minutes before Dr. Harding was to arrive for his shift at noon, and hastily handed it to Peter along with a tube of ointment for his eye. When he turned to leave the ward Peter almost called him back. He already felt _alone,_ and wasn't that ridiculous because he just saw Neal, and anyway, if all went well he'd be out by dinner. So Peter didn't call after him, he just pocketed his two treasures.

Peter was released from the infirmary ten minutes before lunch. At the sight of the forged letter Marakov clapped him on the back so enthusiastically one of the guards came over and asked if they had a problem. Ten minutes into lunch he had the name of the fence.

Later Peter would swear to El, Diana, Jones, anyone who would listen, that he hadn't gone looking for trouble, and that what happened next was nothing more than stars aligning to form a Caffrey-esque coincidence. Ironically, Neal would turn out to the only one who believed it hadn't been a scheme to confront and take down Fynn, the dirty guard and likely murderer. Peter thought it was because Neal was the only one of them that understood that there were things you simply didn't do in prison, and one of them was initiate a brawl with the man who had the means, motive and opportunity to kill you.

He had been on his way to the guards' station on the far side of the mess, ready to say the phrase that would get him the hell out. Guard Fynn had other ideas. He intercepted Peter half-way across the room, and shoved a taser into the small of his back. "Move." Peter did as he was told.

He was taken to the cell-block, which was mostly empty on a Sunday afternoon, and into his cell. He felt the pressure from the taser ease, but before he could formulate what exactly was going on, let alone a plan, the guard's baton hit him in the back of his legs, and he collapsed. He grunted as his knees took his weight. His kneecaps felt ready to shatter. A second blow across his back sent him onto all fours. Fynn, barely clearing 5'5", was remarkably strong. Scarily. He grabbed a handful of Peter's hair and hauled him up so he was sitting on his haunches. He didn't let go, but leaned in and spoke to Peter in a low tone, washing him in the stench stale cigarettes and acidic coffee.

"Heard you were asking about me, _inmate_." He tugged. "Talk of forgeries or what-have-you. Let me make something clear, right here, right now: I do the asking, and if I wish to conduct business with you, I find you." Tug. "I've killed better than you for less. This week. Understand me?" He pulled again. Peter wished he would just take the hair and go.

But an idea had begun to form, and with a rush of adrenaline Neal would call the "thrill of the con" he pounced on it. "I understand you, boss. Loud and clear." Peter said, and bit down on the smile that would ruin everything.

"Sorry boss. How about I offer you a whole batch of prescription pads, on the house? I din't mean to cause no trouble."

Peter would wince if he could move his head. He thought he'd give the prison vulgate a shot, but he sounded yuppie, even to him. Press on. "I have them right here, I'll give you a coupla pads right now," He said, and the thought he'd struck the perfect mixture of anxious-to-please and you-won't-be-sorry.

Fynn apparently had thought so, too. He released Peter and accepted the prescription pads without a word. He didn't even question how he could have gotten them in on his third day inside. He leafed through them, lower lip jutting out in appreciation.

"You keep up this quality work, you and me will be good friends, Paul. Good friends."

Peter offered a genuine smile. "I can't tell you how much I look forward to it."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Fynn left, Peter found a guard standing at the far side of the cell-block, and said to him, "It's snowing early upstate." And just like that, the case was over.

He was escorted out of the general-population area, given his clothes, and then taken to the office to make a call for a ride. He also called Jones, and asked him to arrange for a team to pick up Fynn as he left his shift. "None too gently," he added just before they disconnected the call.

Then he asked for some ice for his knee. While he waited, it occurred to him he hadn't seen Jiminy Cricket once since his intake.

~*~

Waiting for the massive gate to open almost gave him an anxiety attack. He knew it was absurd, but Peter kept thinking someone was going to stop him, call him back, tell him the paperwork didn't go through, _something_. It took all his self control not to squeeze through the gap as soon as it was large enough to admit him. When it was half-way open he figured he'd waited long enough, and began walking out. After three steps he reminded himself that it was alright to look up from his shoes and make eye-contact with the world. What he saw was Neal leaning against a—of course, _his_ —  car, and that stopped him mid-stride.

"You're not my wife." Peter distinctly remembered calling El.

"She asked me to come." Neal was smiling like a first-time father. "Rafael gave me a call." He was downright beaming. "Let me see it."

Peter pointed at his right knee. "It's an ace-bandage and it's under my—no, I'm not letting you see it." The both turned to the car, Peter stifling a smile.

Peter couldn't remember the last time he sat in the passenger seat of his own car. As they pulled out onto the road, he mentioned it. "This feels… Different."

Neal glanced his way for a moment. "You mean not fearing for your life while in the car? It's called road-safety, Peter."

It was the first time someone had called him by his name in days. He felt his shoulders relax.

Neal continued speaking, eyes on the road. "And besides, El forbade me from letting your drive."

Peter was touched for a moment, until he understood Neal's true meaning. He got to the dials first. "Oh, no you don't. It's still my car, Neal." He removed _Die Zauberflöte_ from the cd player just to be sure Neal wouldn't try to play it again.

But then he looked at Neal, and saw the dark circles under his eyes and the slept-in suit, remembered that he had been there for El at all hours, apparently, and that he saved Peter's life about a dozen times in the last three days, and he suddenly felt like a massively ungrateful jerk.

"Luckily for you, I've had a hankering for the Magic Flute these last few days." He fed the CD into the player. "Not many inmates listen to the classics on C-block."

Neal looked surprised, but only for a moment. "No kidding. Hey, have I ever told you about Ronnie? He was the biggest guy in prison, but he knew all of Wagner by heart…" Peter nodded off.

He woke as Neal deftly parallel parked in front of— "June's?" He asked groggily. "Neal, I accept that things look different after time in the slammer, but I'm pretty sure this isn't my house."

"Slammer? You've got to get back to those Sunday _Times_ crosswords. Elizabeth called and said she needed about another half-hour until dinner was ready, and I thought you'd want to freshen up at my place, wash off the smell of prison's Soap-Brand soap. There's a change of clothes in the back."

Peter hadn't realized how much he wanted, desperately needed to wash off the last traces of Paul Dell until Neal suggested it. The thought of seeing El when he could still smell Fynn's breath on himself was repulsive.

He showered and shaved, and when he emerged from Neal's bathroom dressed in his own underwear and jeans and polo-shirt, he felt like himself again. Thinking he ought to thank Neal for, well, a lot of things, but right now for the shower, he came into the kitchen and found that Neal had changed, too, into what passed for Neal Casual.

Neal handed him a cup of _ooooooh_. The smell hit him and he shuddered as he inhaled, taking in the Italian roast. Or Columbian. Whatever. He just knew it was fancy, and it was _good_. 

"Thank you." He relished the first sip. "You know, I'm sorry I made fun of you that time. Prison coffee _is_ cruel and unusual." He took a seat at the table.

Neal sat across from him, his own steaming mug in hand. He looked relaxed, Peter thought, more relaxed than he'd been since even before it was decided Peter would go undecover instead of him. Peter had to ask.

He just didn't know how, exactly. "Listen, Neal," He hesitated, and started again.  "I wanted to, I mean…"

Neal took pity on him. "It's okay, Peter. You don't have to thank me."

Peter was so caught up in trying to word what he _had_ been meaning to ask, he responded to the words, not the sentiment. He shook his head.  "I wasn't going to thank you." Then he heard himself, and shook his head again, as though to erase what he'd just said.

"You really should." And now Neal was had that hurt look he always tried to hide when he was feeling unappreciated, and this was getting away from him.

"Of course I was going to, I meant, it's not what I was going to say just then." Well, if he couldn’t do subtle, which was becoming painfully obvious, he'd have to do direct. He looked at Neal.

"How did you survive prison? You can't have known everything you told me when you first went in. Neal, these last few days were brutal, and I know I had it easy."

Neal took a moment to consider the question, but he didn't look surprised by it. He examined his mug. "I made myself indispensible before I even got there. Found out who the gang jefes were, who needed what, what the guards liked to do in their free time, who to avoid doing business with." Now he looked up, and Peter saw how unsure Neal was of sharing. He wondered if anyone had ever asked him that before.

Peter took a deep breath. "And that kept you safe?"

Neal's entire demeanor changed then, and Peter couldn't tell if it was because he was being honest or because he couldn't stand the pleading undertones in Peter's voice.

"Peter, please. It kept me _popular_. After a week I was a rock-star. I was the go-to guy for everything from cigarettes to portable DVD players. Don’t forget," he shrugged, "half those guys watched me walk right past them when I escaped, and never said a word. It wasn't so bad for me, Peter."

It was unbelievable. Neal was trying to protect him. But Peter really wanted to believe him, so he didn't push it.

He stood up. "While your company is always delightful, I would like to get home to see my wife. Shall we?"

Neal grabbed the keys and his jacket and followed Peter downstairs. When they got to the car they both headed for the driver's side.

"Peter, Elizabeth told me not to let you drive. She decides," Neal said, and held the keys away from Peter.

Peter could see this was going to be a _thing_ , unless he nipped it in the bud. "Oh, no, I'm taking control back right now, before you start going to my wife to decide where we eat lunch. Gimme…" He made what he thought was a lightening-grab for the keys, but Neal was faster and ducked around him to the opposite side of the car.

"Peter, she'll kill me. Also I have the keys." He held them up victoriously.

"Then don't tell her. It's my car, Neal, and I'm not an invalid! I probably got more rest than you these last few days."

Neal shrugged in acknowledgement, but not defeat.

"Neal, the keys. You do realize I can still—" Peter had an experience that was rare for him; he realized what he was about to say and had enough time to change it before it was too late. He was grateful. It would have been spectacularly unfunny. "—stick you with everyone's paperwork on the Henry Street embezzlement case, right?"

Neal deflated.  "Prison changed you, man." He tossed the keys to Peter and stood back on the curb. Peter unlocked the doors and was halfway inside before he realized Neal wasn't moving. He climbed back out and leaned against the car.

"Neal, what now? I am getting a little anxious to get home."

Peter could tell Neal was having a rare experience, too. He wasn't following.

"What, what now? I gave you the keys." He pulled his hands up to prove they were empty.

"Get in the car before Elizabeth starts worrying about us!" Peter couldn't see what Neal's problem was, and then, the next moment, he could. "Neal, you're coming to supper."

Neal smiled a little sadly, Peter thought, but stayed where he was. "Peter, you want to be with your family tonight. We'll catch up tomorrow."

That was so absurd to Peter he had to look down the street so Neal wouldn't think he was laughing at him. He collected himself and looked back. "Come to supper," he said.

Neal looked at the car, took a step forward, then a step back again. "But Elizabeth, she was planning a whole dinner… Are you sure? I shouldn't impose."

Was he _sure_? For days Peter had thought of little but the times he'd personally sent Neal to prison, and the Empire Motel where he left him that first day, and the endless cracks at sending him back… And also the concern, the advice, the clean clothes, the _coffee_. Of course he was sure. It was never even a question.

Peter knew himself well enough to admit that he would probably never get around to saying the _thank you_ Neal deserved. It would be pitiful compared to what Peter owed him, anyway. But this, he could do. Without hesitation.

He caught Neal's eye, and held the contact for a moment, making sure there would be no misunderstanding. Daring Neal to read his mind again.

"Neal, come to supper."

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I believe that Peter often misreads Neal. As El said on day 1, he doesn't know how not to be suspicious of Neal's motives/sincerity.   
> 2\. Neal doesn't strike me as traumatized by prison as one would if he experienced all it had to offer. 
> 
> I tried to explore these two points within the premise of the prompt-- I hope it carries through. 
> 
> As always, comments are more than welcome, including corrections.


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